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Two sisters separated soon after birth
run towards each other, eagerly, yet shyly, wonderingly,from the two ends of a bridgehigh over the water that joins and separates – run to meet:Constantinopolis, Byzantium;a city never here and always there,a city made of images in the mind and heartits jewelled, aqueous, shifting lightpromising and hidinglike a jewelled dancer swirling, whom our senses yield…
Although it is a cold evening,
an old man sits netting.If this were a novelby, say, Jack London,something would be about to happen:time would pass, events move on,dramas unfold; we might see this old man again,or we might not.Instead, we share a moment outside time,share our being – the old man;Elizabeth, whose grandfather was his friend;ourselves; knowing that, the more real…
Well, you’d expect them to hate each other,
and deep down they hateall human beings, and hate themselves…those who would impose their ‘righteousness’upon their fellow men…but the God who’s mercifully beyond all namesmust look down in stunned incomprehensionwhen the faithful make division in their faith…Catholics and Protestants, Sunnis and Shias…for perhaps this is the greatest crime of allagainst God: and if so, the…
So how would you feel if
80 virgins (I always thoughtit was 76 – tough…)lined up fora ‘martyr’who’d just killed 80 peopleincluding the odd fun-da-mental-ist?Read the small print, honey.(And that goes for you too, guys,if the guy was.. well, you know?)Just askin’…
She said that each one in the world
than anybody else… so, it’s a glorious gift,– a glorious duty – to know, acknowledge, this;but what happens, so she said,is that we know this, and deny it;but then if pressed somehow, we makea condition for ourself: ‘well, only if…’and this – the devil in the detail – is a wayto lock our talent in;…